


Nights

by TransConnorDetroit



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Guilt, Gun references, Hank is a sad man lol, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 12:23:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16953963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TransConnorDetroit/pseuds/TransConnorDetroit
Summary: There are many nights that Hank could live, but on this night he must deal with the consequences of his actions





	Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr @trans-connor-detroit. Also leave a comment telling me what you think pls *sad cowboy*  
> Fun fact about this peace: It was originally labeled “Nightmare 2: electric boogaloo” in my drafts

There are many nights that Hank could live. Too many, maybe, or not many enough. Because each choice Hank makes, each step he takes forward, is another cut at the branches of possibilities that spread out before him like snares. There are good nights, there are bad nights. 

There are nights that Hank deserves.

Hank snaps awake at the sound of the electric hacking. He’s awake almost too quickly, enough to add an edge of guilt to the rush of consciousness that now fills his brain. But the noises are loud, and he doesn’t dare dwell on this; the hacks are like coughing, if he can ignore the decidedly metallic tinge to it, and it sets his teeth on edge. 

“Connor? Son?” He nudges the shoulder, soft yet stiff. Most of the softness resides in the blue pinstripe pajamas that Hank lent him. Hank digs his nails into the fabric, noting with disjointed interest as his fingers cut thick stripes into the material.

Connor nudges. He’s dreaming, of course. Still locked inside of his nightmare. He jerks once, then slumps over, onto his back. His mouth moves with quiet intensity. Hank is glad he can’t hear the words.

Stil, Connor must awaken. He shakes the boy again, watching his head loll. Eyelashes, so delicate like spun silk that Hank wonders how Kamski could ever have replicated them, beat against Connor’s cheekbones. “Hank.” He says. Raspy. Detached. At least he’s awake, Hank tells himself. 

“Connor. You, uhh, had a nightmare. So I had to wake you up.”

“Had to? That’s a funny word.” Connor gives him a milk-white smile, swimming half on his face, and Hank pretends it means that he’s been forgiven. 

“I’m a funny man. Now,” The words stall on the tip of his tongue, and he wants to catch them before they topple onto the ground in an ugly heap. Still, he lets them fall. “What was your dream about, Con? You were, you were pretty fucked up.”

“Nightmare. It was a nightmare.” The smile disperses.

“Was it…” A list of possibilities crawls past Hank in the time that Connor stares listlessly at him. All past horrors that have visited Connor. Hank starts with the most removed. “Did you see Amanda again? Were you with her, in the garden?” Her phantom had visited Connor on some nights, when his screams echoed out of him against the bedroom walls. 

“No, Hank.”

“Then was it in the tower? When I was too late, and you were on the floor and-” Hank is so grateful when Connor cuts him off. 

“No, Hank. But you were there.”

“Was it Kamski, then? With his sick little test when he made you shoot Chloe.”

“No. But there was certainly a gun involved in my nightmare.” Connor’s fingers bunch against the blanket.

Hank’s heart sinks as Connor’s eyes link with his. One perfect eyebrow raises. Hank doesn’t open his mouth, because if he does he will, with sick certainty, recount Connor’s dream. 

“There was snow in the air.” Connor says. “Falling, twirling, whatever you humans use to describe it. It was night, a cold blue night. And we were alone and you were so fucking angry at me.” 

Hank wants, so desperately, to raise his own voice in defense of his actions. But there is none. 

“You were standing right in front of me, your gun in your hand. Asked if I was afraid of dying. I wanted to say yes, Hank. I wanted to so much. I was afraid.” Little white fingers worry the edges of the gray blanket into frays. Hank doesn’t stop them.

“What happened then, Connor?” Hank finally chokes out. 

“You shot me.” The edge of the blanket comes off with a dull rip. 

“Ah. Right. Of course.” The air between them hangs heavy with the words Hank doesn’t know to say. 

“‘Of course’.”

“I, just… I had to know.”

“Such a funny word, Hank. ‘Had to’. There is always another step you could take.” Connor rips neat two new strips of blanket, setting them beside the first in a line. 

“I know that now.” He pleads. 

“I want to be alone.” Connor turns over, silencing their conversation. His shoulders slump into the blankets, and from the soft noises and the many nights before that Hank knows will blend into so many nights beyond, he knows Connor is crying. 

So Hank stands up. His legs wobble under him, but he grimaces and catches his bearings. He doesn’t deserve to ignore the pain. Right now, he has to leave. 

As he trudges out of the room, he takes one glance back. Connor is still folded into the bed, shoulders shaking silently. Of all the nights Hank could have lived, branching off from when he had stood in the cold blue night and shot his son clean through the forehead, Hank knows that this is the night that he deserves.


End file.
